I grew up in a town twenty minutes from Athens. Any trace of city life was drowned out by the deep greens of the towering trees and the cloying smell of the chicken farms on a windy day. My world was the square mile containing my home, school, and my choice of church. I was a good student, a good daughter. I had a good life. It wasn’t perfect, but I was happy. My dad used to say, “Live for you funeral.” He told that to me when I was eight-years-old. Most of his stories had morals like that. He was a police officer, after all. The city was, according to him, like a forest filled with ravenous bears. You go in there alone, you better bring bear spray. And if you don’t, you better be sure your friends and family will give a good eulogy. A big part of being ready to die was making sure I’d made my reservations at that big restaurant in the sky. It shouldn’t have been too hard; the biggest social event in town was the Wednesday night church service. I went when I was younger, but when the older kids were raising their hands to the Lord and singing hallelujah, I just felt awkward. I thought the problem lied with me, that if I tried hard enough I’d find the same enthusiasm that the others had. Then I got older. I learned that Wednesdays were for asking forgiveness, but the rest of the week was for racking up a tab of sins big enough to get God’s attention, which to me kind of defeated the point. The youth pastor’s sermons had sugary-sweet life lessons like “Respect your parents,” and “Never cheat,” rules that were broken within minutes of the service; the regular pastor tried the opposite tactic, screaming the tenets of the Bible into our brains. What I once saw as well-intentioned tough love turned into something sour, a bitter taste that lingered even once I was in bed staring at the dark ceiling and wondering what was up there. But I still remember life before the world of my childhood got a lot bigger and a lot more complicated.
My dad used to say, “Live for you funeral.” He told that to me when I was eight-years-old. Most of his stories had morals like that. He was a police officer, after all. The city was, according to him, like a forest filled with ravenous bears. You go in there alone, you better bring bear spray. And if you don’t, you better be sure your friends and family will give a good eulogy.
A big part of being ready to die was making sure I’d made my reservations at that big restaurant in the sky. It shouldn’t have been too hard; the biggest social event in town was the Wednesday night church service. I went when I was younger, but when the older kids were raising their hands to the Lord and singing hallelujah, I just felt awkward. I thought the problem lied with me, that if I tried hard enough I’d find the same enthusiasm that the others had. Then I got older. I learned that Wednesdays were for asking forgiveness, but the rest of the week was for racking up a tab of sins big enough to get God’s attention, which to me kind of defeated the point. The youth pastor’s sermons had sugary-sweet life lessons like “Respect your parents,” and “Never cheat,” rules that were broken within minutes of the service; the regular pastor tried the opposite tactic, screaming the tenets of the Bible into our brains. What I once saw as well-intentioned tough love turned into something sour, a bitter taste that lingered even once I was in bed staring at the dark ceiling and wondering what was up there.
But I still remember life before the world of my childhood got a lot bigger and a lot more complicated.